I don’t iron.

I mean, I don’t iron.  Not a bit.

I have, for most of my adult life, owned an iron.  The last time I remember using it was 2004.  Linen pants for first date.  On said date, I mentioned I had a confession.  And more important than pointing out I was still a court date, a truck title, and few signatures away from being not-married, I needed this man to know that I did not iron and it was the last time he’d see those pants unwrinkled.

Unsurprisingly, since he was more interested in getting the pants off me than whether I could compete with his mother (and indeed, I could not.  Damn that is a tough awesome woman), he did not care.

You might think that I just dry clean or send out, but I don’t.  I just basically run around wrinkled and don’t care.  I guess that more of my fancier work clothes did end up dry cleaned (or at least dryeled).  But even when I worked in an office, I was a software engineer working in an office.  The greatest work outfit I had included the “only 10 types of people” binary T-shirt.

Tom knew that I didn’t iron right off the bat.  He swore it didn’t bother him.  And true to his word, the few times we’ve had emergency ironing situations (the latest being chair covers), he’s stepped up.

But he doesn’t iron his work shirts.  And he recently received a promotion to the point that dress code is important.  So today I asked him if it ever comes up and he said he makes a point to slip it into conversation early.

“Then when I come in wrinkled they can just shake their heards and say, ‘well…it’s kinda like being a bachelor.’”

Which sums up our marriage nicely.

I have locked myself in the bedroom with two dogs and a cat.  The cat will be going in for surgery tomorrow morning and needs to fast.  Since we recently switched up our animal feeding routine to include automatic feeders, I have to separate him for the night – or at least until 6:04am when the other greedy felines have wolfed down the pre-portioned meals.

Yes, I suppose I could figure out how to de-program the feeders.  But that would require that I remember come morning to feed everyone else, and re-program the feeders tomorrow.  Plus, Tom has created the most insane and hilarious contraptions for these feeders to keep the smallest cats from sticking their paws up the chute and making these high-tech devices self-serve.  I think he might have included self-destruct c4 that could blow if I were to approach the feeders at the wrong angle.

The dogs are in here because they will whine and keep me up all night if I lock them out.  Opposed to how they will keep me up all night by changing spots 4,801 times in the bed.

If I survive the night without getting peed on, I will be looking over my shoulder all day tomorrow.  Fate cannot let me get by unscathed.

Do you ever reach an age, a maturity, where that is not your relflex to a rude and unnecessary comment/email/twitter?

I am…hoping?  Dreaming?  Nay, DEMANDING that 2010 be better than 2009.